


Suggestions

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Letters, M/M, Post-it Notes, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 02:00:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10206446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock responds to a note John left him, which leads to some suggestions from John.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I'd Like To...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10143041) by [TheColdEastWind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheColdEastWind/pseuds/TheColdEastWind). 



> I just loved the short work by TheColdEastWind, "I'd like to..." I imagined how Sherlock would respond to such a letter! I've had the wonderful privilege of writing that response, and the consequences thereof, with permission, of course, so here it is.

_Letter directly from TheColdEastWind’s work, “I’d like to…”_

Dear Sherlock,

I...I would like to. I would really like to. I've wanted to for so long. Sometimes it's all I can think of how much I'd like to...just...you. And me. We. I'd like to. To slowly, over and over. I'd like to by the fire light. I'd like to on the table where we take our tea. Just softly. I'd like to. Just we. I'd like to. To gently...if you let me. Deeply. To just...mmmm. To hear it spoken softly. To say...to say...softly. I'd like to. I'd like to give...and take. To yes oh god yes. I'd like to. Would you. Would you like to?

 

John Hamish Watson

 

+++

 

_John,_

_I am not sure why we are communicating in this form, however I will respect your chosen medium and have responded in kind._

_I have no idea what you are talking about. Please be explicit._

_SH_

 

John found the folded paper under his laptop the next morning. His face flamed as he realised Sherlock must have found the note he’d left. It had been a long week and, without time to replace the rosin Mycroft had confiscated, Sherlock had been unable to play his violin. John had penned the note very late one evening, after several drinks, giggling madly as he placed it in Sherlock’s violin case. When he had awoken the next morning, John had wavered for hours over whether he should retrieve it, or leave it for Sherlock to find. Eventually, he had chosen to leave it, his hands shaking and heart pounding just making the decision.

John had long since stopped bringing dates home, or even going on them in the first place. Given Sherlock’s knack for observation, he had become frustrated at Sherlock’s apparent disregard for this change in his lifestyle. He didn’t want to be the one to draw attention to it, but it seemed that Sherlock would not be forthcoming. Eventually, with enough melancholy and beer he’d taken matters into his own hands. As he recalled there was a decidedly lyrical turn to his note, and he had been hoping Sherlock would take his meaning. Apparently, according to the note in his hand, Sherlock had not.

John chewed on his lower lip. He wished Sherlock had included his original note so he had an idea of what he’d written. The word ‘explicit’ seemed to jump out from Sherlock’s writing, the ideas it spun through John’s head making him blush once again. Truth be told, to himself at least, any one of those ideas made his mouth run dry and his heart flutter. But how on earth could he find the words to say any of those things to Sherlock? This, though, might be the only opportunity he had to explain it to Sherlock. He had to try, lest his chance not come again.

Without pausing, John searched in his desk for pen and paper. He sat down at his desk and drew the paper to himself. The pen hovered over the top right corner of the page as John tried to arrange his thoughts.

 _Dear Sherlock_ , he began. Good start, but not really very informative, he thought in frustration. How could he explain his emotions to Sherlock? It wasn’t really the emotions he wanted to convey, thought John suddenly; they were big words, scary words, but it was the little things he wanted to tell Sherlock about. The small moments that he wanted to share with Sherlock. Perhaps he could start there. Just one at a time, see how Sherlock reacted before moving on to the next.

John threw out the previous attempt and started again. Keep it simple, and explicit, he thought.

 

_I’d like to smile at you in the morning while we talk about our day._

 

He tore off the top half of the sheet, the message centred on it, and took it to the sitting room, placing it in the violin case. Who knew how long until Sherlock would see it – and even then, perhaps, he may not act on it. As far as John could tell, Sherlock thought there was some deep and meaningful reason that this communication was happening in notes rather than verbally, and he was happy to encourage that belief. Perhaps it would be easier this way, Sherlock getting directions, more or less, and slowly building up some changes. A gradual shift, rather than a bombshell.

The next day, John made sure to be dressed and downstairs early. He knew he would not beat Sherlock up – though he’d been sleeping last night when John snuck downstairs, he rarely stayed in bed more than a few hours at a time. John had not heard the violin, but that was not a guarantee; he was often sitting in his chair, plucking the strings absently as he thought. In that case, he would certainly have seen the note. Heart pounding, John came down the stairs and into the kitchen. He felt a twinge of disappointment as he saw nothing out of the ordinary – just Sherlock standing at the microscope, ignoring John as he so often did.

“Morning.” John offered, the usual grunt his only response. John resigned himself to a normal day, making toast and tea before slumping into his chair. He was surprised when Sherlock joined him, tea in hand, a piece of John’s toast swiped on the way past to sit in his own chair.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock replied gravely. “What are your plans for the day?”

John looked at him blankly, then answered, “Uhm, Molly wanted to see me, I’ll get some shopping in, and I agreed to help Mrs. Hudson fix the squeaky door downstairs.”

Sherlock appeared to be listening intently to this. When John finished, he nodded. “I will be continuing my work with the spleens in the fridge today.” He said, a sudden smile blindingly bright on his face.

John blinked at the unexpectedness of this and broke into surprised laughter, it only intensifying as Sherlock looked thoroughly confused.

“What?” he asked, sending John into even more gales of mirth.

“Nothing, nothing.” John said, grinning broadly at the slightly offended Sherlock.

“Well, if we’re done, then.” He said, leaving his untouched tea and replacing the toast on John’s plate.

John wiped his eyes, then paused. He’d just smiled at Sherlock in the morning as they talked about their day. The game, as Sherlock would say, was on. John’s eyes gleamed with the possibilities.

+++

Over the next few weeks, John restrained the urge to leave Sherlock a note every day. Sometimes it was two days in a row; other times he left a day or even two in between. Sherlock, initially serious and formal as he followed the suggestions on John’s notes, relaxed into it as he received positive responses and gentle encouragement from John. As the time passed for John, his life became a series of vignettes reflecting their relationship as it slowly evolved.

_I’d like to share a Chinese and actually get some of the dumplings._

“I’ll get dinner in, shall I?” John asked in exasperation, when dinner time came and went with no effort from Sherlock. He was disappointed that this suggestion had gone unheeded, but accepted that some things were too much to wish for. Sherlock looked up and smiled a smug smile just as the doorbell rang. Of course, John had to answer the door, but when he returned, Chinese bags in hand, his heartrate was higher than the climb on the stairs had warranted.

“I ordered two serves of dumplings.” Sherlock said casually. John’s heart leapt, and he smiled at Sherlock. The return smile was hesitant but genuine, and they held it for a second longer than strictly necessary.

_I’d like to have you wait for me when we’re working on a case together._

Sherlock bolted out the door after his usual epiphany, complete with orgasm noise. John exchanged a look with Lestrade, only to hurry out the door and right into Sherlock, who was waiting outside the room for John.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock asked, the tension tightening his voice. He looked wound as taut as a spring – but he was standing still, waiting for John.

_I’d like to hear something true about you that nobody else knows._

John was shaving when Sherlock barged into the bathroom, curls bouncing. He scowled at John, who waited patiently for Sherlock’s tightly pursed lips to open so he could speak.

“I have velumiphobia, which I have worked hard to overcome.”

John blinked as Sherlock slammed out of the room. He had a suspicion he knew what that meant, but just to be sure, he googled it when he had finished shaving.

_Velumiphobia (n). an extreme or irrational fear of or aversion to umbrellas._

John smiled. He was sure Mycroft did not know about that, which made it a secret indeed.

_I’d like to sit with you and watch TV in the evening._

John snuggled up with his tea and a biscuit (okay, two), ready to watch the last episode of Broadchurch. He had been waiting impatiently for this, having been a fan of David Tennant since he’d been the Doctor. The last ads were on just as Sherlock plopped himself down next to John, right next to him, snuggling under the same blanket. His cold, bare feet made John yelp as they landed on his leg, even through his tracksuit pants.

“What have I missed?” Sherlock asked innocently. John rolled his eyes, then summarised the last five hours of television in ten seconds. He could feel Sherlock’s body pressed to his under the small blanket, distracting him. It was pleasant then to realise that Sherlock was watching the show without his usual derisive comments; and at the end he said carefully, “I can see you enjoyed this. The acting was excellent,” avoiding all comments on the plot, police work or any other aspect on which he surely had a list of criticisms. John knew it wasn’t just the combined body heat warming him through.

_I’d like to find you’ve done the shopping sometimes._

_I’d like to hear you say thank you for the tea I make._

John had not actually expected Sherlock to do any shopping, and was unsurprised when several days passed with nothing. In fact, he’d set the next note without comment on the unfilled prompt.

John turned from making tea, two mugs in his hand out of habit, despite the formerly empty flat. He stood mouth open as Sherlock plonked the Tesco bags on the table and fished a box of John’s favourite biscuits out, handing them over.

“Thank you for my tea, John.” He said seriously, looking at John intently. John flushed and nodded. Bloody hell, he thought, two for one!

_I’d like to hear you play your favourite song on the violin._

John woke suddenly, the sounds of a violin playing through the quiet night air. It was late, but not overly unreasonable by Sherlock’s standards. John wrapped himself in a blanket and padded downstairs, settling silently on the sofa as Sherlock played nothing in particular.

Sherlock paused as John entered, then said “Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major” without looking at John. He started playing a sad, longing piece, clearly about searching and want and desire, bringing John almost to tears at the depth of feeling he was evoking. When the piece was over, neither spoke. Sherlock put his instrument away, nodded stiffly to John, and took himself to bed. John pulled his blanket tighter around himself and sat thinking for a long time.

 

_I’d like to ask you a question and get an honest answer._

“You have a question.” Sherlock asked John, passing the marmalade. John nodded. He’d grown to love their new morning ritual, talking briefly about their day while he ate.

“Who am I?” John asked, feeling the flush work up his neck as he forced his eyes to remain on Sherlock’s.

“I don’t…what?” Sherlock replied.

“to you. Who am I to you?” John asked again. He could see Sherlock’s brain working, looking for a trap, a double meaning…

“You’re my friend, John.” He answered eventually, not sounding at all sure of himself. “My best friend.”

John nodded. “Okay.”

Sherlock frowned. “That was your question?”

John nodded calmly again. “It was.” Sherlock looked thoughtful as John drank his tea.

 

_I’d like to hear you ask Angelo for a candle for our table._

When it happened, John was surprised, even after he’d planted his note two days earlier. He’d learned by now that Sherlock sometimes took a little while to fulfil the requests on the notes; John assumed he was considering the possible implications, or planning exactly how he would accomplish the task. They’d ended up at Angelo’s by accident, Northumberland Road being the address of the man they’d just apprehended (with Lestrade’s help). With adrenaline still coursing through him, John had forgotten about the prompt until Sherlock spoke to Angelo. He stared at Sherlock as Angelo beamed, then returned with a single tea light candle, dancing merrily at John as it was placed on the table. He swallowed hard as he watched the flame burn, feeling its twin spark inside him.

 

_I’d like to receive a text from you saying, ‘I’m hungry. Let’s have dinner.’_

John had selected these words specifically, confident that Sherlock would recognise the phrase. He knew that Sherlock had overheard his conversation with Irene, that he understood the hidden meaning in the unremarkable words. Despite his self-proclaimed ignorance when it came to the subtlety of communication, Sherlock would be capable of deducing John’s intent…he hoped. Even then, it remained to be seen if Sherlock would chose to send the message or not.

+++

John was at work when the text came through. 3.29pm. He could hardly have sent it by accident, or even as an actual dinner invitation. Swallowing hard, John stared at the message. He already knew what his reply would be.

 

_I’d like to say some things and have you listen._

John had broken the pattern by texting, but he hoped Sherlock would not hold it against him. They now stood in the sitting room, eyes locked, breathing synchronised. Their connection had been building these past weeks, thread by gossamer thread, the strands spinning between them with each moment offered and accepted. And now, the threads had woven themselves into a tightly knit web, binding John and Sherlock together in an undeniable union. The moment had come to acknowledge it, and John knew he had taken responsibility to do so.

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. “I’d like to say…” he trailed off, trying to find the words. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, though, John realised he had used up all his words. It was past time for words. Stepping forward, he searched Sherlock’s face for a reaction. It remained calm, watching their web contract and pull them towards each other, John stepping in until the toes of their shoes met. John tilted up as Sherlock tilted down, their lips meeting as the threads of their web finally draw them truly together.


End file.
